calculatoronfire

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January 31, 2005

Travel Story #1

I was hanging out with my dad and mentioned I wanted to go to another country. "Hey dad, I want to go to another country."
"Why would you want to do something like that? You don't have time for something like that."
"Sure I do. I've got time to do whatever I want."
"But you won't be able to spend very long. You have to go back to work."
"I know."

That's about all it was. I expressed a desire. I didn't say anything like now, tomorrow, or even next week. But the next day when we were again hanging out, probably trying to find the cheapest cup of coffee - because that's what we do, he said, "Let's go to Istanbul."
"Turkey?"
"Yeah."
"Cool. When?"
"Today."
"Can we?"
"I thought you said you had time."
"I do, but can we just leave today?"
"Yeah, sure. Why not?"
"Ok. Let's go."
"How about Amman?"
"I like Istanbul -- but whatever's cheaper."

So we stopped at a travel agency and inquired about the cost of tickets to both places. Both were cheap enough, we chose Istanbul. The travel agent asked if we had any other questions. I asked about the cost of Turkish coffee. My dad nodded. Nodded as in, good question. She looked confused. "When's the soonest we can leave?"
"The next flight is leaving in 3 hours. Is that too soon?"
"No, it's perfect."

We bought tickets, packed up a few things -- enough for a 3 day stay. "Shit. Shorts. It's going to be hot right? I don't have any shorts."
"It's a Muslim country. They don't wear shorts."
"They don't? Are you sure? Don't they get hot?"
"No. They're used to it. They still wear beards. I'd shave my beard before I felt the need to wear shorts."
"Good point. I'll grow a beard starting ... now." -- and ran out to catch a bus to the airport. We were hurried, but not frenzied. "We're going to Istanbul!"
"Yeah!"
"What do you want to see there?"
"I don't know. What's in Instanbul? the Hagia Sofia? Let's see that. I want to go to the Asia Minor part. I want to step in Asia. That'd be awesome. Something I could tell my grandkids about."
"You have to get laid first, buddy."
"Shut up. Dads aren't supposed to talk like that."

"Do they have beer there? They better have beer there."
"Why wouldn't they?"
"It's a Muslim country."
"Oh. Right. But it's a secular Muslim country. Secular means alcohol."
"Yeah. Let's hope so. But just in case, I'm sneaking some in."
"Dad! You can't sneak alcohol in if they don't allow it. Don't they cut off hands for that?"
"I'll just fill a water bottle with some vodka. They'll never know."

On the plane, Turkish Airways, my dad turned to me. "Why are we doing this?"
"We're going to see Turkey. Istanbul!"
"Oh yeah. I can't believe you talked me into this."
"What? All I said was I wanted to go to another country. You told me you wanted to go to Istanbul. Today."
"You talked me into it."
"I did not. You most definitely said, 'today.'"
"It better be worth it."
"We're seeing the world. Come on. How could it not be worth it?"
"What is there to see in Istanbul besides the Hagia Sofia? The Topkapi and the Bazaar?"
"I don't know? Have you ever seen those?"
"In books. That's enough for me."
"Come on, dad. They're not going to turn this plane around for you. You're going."
"But the girls aren't even hot."
"How do you know?"
"Look at the stewardesses."
"That doesn't mean anything."
"This is the official airline. They always put their best on show as stewardesses on the national airlines."
"Oh. I hope not."

We landed in Istanbul about 10pm local time. After about 15 minutes on the plane stopped in the middle of the tarmack a bus pulled up. The bus was to take us to the terminal. We all crammed into it - an entire plane crammed into one bus. It was standing room only- the bus had no seats, everyone had one arm up holding the rail as the bus left.
When we stopped at the terminal and got off the bus my dad complained, "Damn. It stunk on there. What a way to start a trip."
"Come on. We're in Istanbul! We're here!"

We got a little farther into the airport, but before we could get to our luggage was -- between us and and our luggage stood -- customs. But not just customs where they look at your passport and try to intimidate you into confessing that you've smuggled liquor into the country under the guise of mineral water, the kind that checks for visas. "Shit. You need a visa? Why didn't the lady at the travel agency tell us?"
"Wait. Look. We can buy one right over there. And they're only $20 Euro."
"20 Euro? What a rip off. I've never paid to get into a country before and they want $20 Euro."
"Wait. No. It says $100 for Americans."
"What? 20 Euro for everyone and $100 for Americans? What is this bullshit?"
"No. Not everyone. A bunch of countries are free. Some are only 10 Euro."
"They're trying to fuck us. I'm not going to get fucked. Let's get the next plane out of this fucking place."
"What?"
"Yeah. I'm not paying them to go into their god damn filthy country. Especially not $100."
"Come on. We came all the way down here. We can't just turn around."
"Fuck these people. I'm not going to give them a god damn penny. -- 100 dollars. That's a fucking rip off. Everyone else is fucking free and they try to fuck us just because we have money. Fuck them."
"We tried to force them into helping us with a war."
"I didn't do any fucking thing with that war. I'm not giving these greedy bastards my money."
"Fine. I'll pay for you."
"No way. Don't you get it? The point isn't who pays; I'm not going to step foot in this country. Not one foot."
"But we've got to get our luggage."
"They better bring it to me."
"What if they don't?"
"Fuck them. They can have it. I'm not going to pay them a penny."

Posted by calculatoronfire at 03:02 PM | Comments (5)

January 28, 2005

Where Does Brian Live?

Check out the crime within 1/2 mile of my house (From Dec 31, 2004 to Jan 13, 2005).

Why are drug related crimes not on the legend? My guess is so that you can still see the streets.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 01:42 PM | Comments (4)

My Neighbor's House

My relationships with my neighbors are always strange. I think it is mostly because they are.

The drunk guy on the other side of the alley that would always ask me to throw away something big so he could call his connections at the city to get the garbage men to pick it up. "Any thing. Any time. Just let me know."

The guy next door that threw a full can of beer in my face, splitting my lip wide open, because I walked down the stairs too loudly (unfortunately he immediately sped off and never returned; I never got a chance to slash his tires) -- the guy who lived in his mother-in-law's house -- the mother-in-law that affectionately (I'm sure) referred to him as "Asshole."

The guy that flew the confedrate battle flag in front of his home dwarfed by its 4 adjoining garages filled with disassembled lawn mowers -- the guy that would stick his head and a Budweiser-filled hand over the fence every couple days and while pointing to my dog say, "Dat dog gah pih init."

The guy that cut off several toes in a lawn mowing accident that came over to my yard to pull weeds from around my front porch for some reason.

The two sisters in their late 70s that, weather permitting, split a 40 in their back yard every night -- the ladies that would always call me over to tell me that they thought I looked exactly like one of the boys they knew that died in Europe during WWII. Did I want to see the love letters he left them?

The guy that stood in front of their house for hours at a time, weather permitting, holding a flyswatter, wearing state trooper sun glasses swatting at flies.

The guy in the wheel chair that seemed to be the only thing that could make the guy with the flyswatter return home -- the guy who wheel up to me, introduce himself as "Crazy Legs," tell me that he was a huge Michael Landon fan, that he used to skip school and drink coffee with the bus drivers, that he used to work at a bakery until it moved, but that when he "get[s his] legs back" he'll work their once more.

The guy that periodically pulled his washer and dryer out onto the sidewalk to wash and wax them.

etc.

Needless to say I'm rarely surprised by my neighbors now days. But yesterday...

There's a junkie in the neighborhood that regularly comes down the street carrying some package or another, offering to sell its contents (whatever its contents my be) for ten dollars (always ten dollars). He's come by offering me a fifty pound box of roofing nails. A cell phone "still in the box!" Radios, cordless phones, building supplies, bicycles. The day before last it was a rachet set.
After turning him down every single time, in as few words as possible, and otherwise never speaking to him it seems he decided I wanted to chat with him yesterday. I suppose it helped that I was in a good mood having skipped out of work early. The exchange went something like this:
"Damn. It's cold out here. Ain't it?" he said as I opened my front door.
"Yep."
"Yeah. Real cold. Damn cold." He stopped on the sidewalk behind me as I unlocked the inner door.
"Yep. And it's supposed to get colder tonight. Seven degrees, I think."
"Damn. That's too cold. That's too cold for me. I live in the garage. You know that? I live in the garage and that's gonna be real cold."
"That sucks."
"Yeah, hey, buddy, do you think you can help me out with a dollar or something?"
"No."

That in and of its self is far from surprising. A junkie that lives in a garage. A junkie asking for money. No big deal. The surprise really came today when I took my dogs out in the stinging cold for their morning walk. I made note to check out the junkie I call Petey's garage home. I know where he lives because several of the neighbors have told me to talk to Kenny the bikesmith if I need a bike.
"Kenny the bikesmith?"
"Yeah. Kenny. He's real good with bikes."
"Who is he?"
"He lives in the third house down. You know that little guy. The one always selling shit? Like phones 'n shit? That's Kenny's brother."

I walked past the third house down and peered into the back yard. I didn't recall seeing a garage there before, so I needed to check.
What I saw was less of a garage and more of a 5'x4' corregated metal shed. A tool shed -- if you don't mind your tools blowing away with the shed should any strong breeze come.
It was smaller than the dog house in Daniel's back yard. Sure, the house was a little too big for his Great Dane, but it was in no way big enough for a non-midgetitis afflicted human. Still, Petey, the junkie salesman, calls an even smaller, flimsier version home.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 12:40 PM | Comments (1)

Internet Sucks -(A Little Bit)-

Today I realized how much the Internet sucks.
What the hell is this asshole thinking? I know that's floating around in your head if you haven't already blurted it out. I, however, have proof the Internet does bad things to people.

My proof:
Today I went to the record store to pick up EP by the Fiery Furnaces because I've been relatively infatuated with their musical stylings of late. The store was sold out of the ep but I did not leave empty handed. I was going to, but I didn't. And Internet is to blame.
As I was stepping back from the CD bin I saw the artist heading "Fennesz." Oh, Internet told me this is a good album. I should get it to see just how good.
I bought a copy of Venice. I blame the Internet.

Sure it was an impulse buy, and I admit did it, but let me tell you what Internet, "I want my $14 back."

Ok Internet, I'm sorry. I over reacted a little bit. I admit it. I'm sorry.
I was pretty mad that you told me how great this album was and then when I listened to it I found it so boring. I should have expected it. I mean, I know the guy sells recordings of ambient noise -- he went out in public, recorded stuff and now he sells it. I should have known.
It's not you. It's me.
I really should have known.
That, and I put the cd on before I went to sleep and I slept like a baby. Immediately. With the lights on. My head hit the pillow, internet, and I was out. Just like that.
Why?
Well, I blame Fennesz.

The real funny thing is, internet, I was jonesin' for that boring stuff first thing in the morning.

So. If you give me $5 back I'll call it even. How's that?

Posted by calculatoronfire at 12:24 AM | Comments (2)

January 27, 2005

For Tension, Guess What I Use

I tutor twice a week at the Hampden Family Center. That makes me seem like a huge dork to the girl I tutor. I know this because she tells me just about every time I show up to help her with her homework -- homework she rarely brings with her. A typical exchange of ours goes something like this, "You're a dork. Aren't you?"
"No."
"Yeah, right. You're here instead of hanging out. And look at those clothes you wear; they are definitely not cool."
"Yeah, probably not, but I don't care."
"See. You're a loser."
"OK. Are you going to do your homework?"
"I didn't bring it with me."

Yesterday, however, she actually brought homework. She pulled out a worksheet covered with basic algebraic equations. Wow. She's going to work. I'm going to actually tutor. I asked if she knew how to do the first problem. "No."
"OK. You want to get 'c' by itself."
"Shut up."
"What?"
"Shut up. I'm not going to do it. I'm going to do the ones I know how to do."
"But I can help you so you know how to do all of them."
"Whatever. I'm going to do the ones I know how to do and I'll ask my teacher how to do the rest."
"But you could just ask me. That's pretty much what I'm here for."
"Shut up."
This went on for a little while before I resigned myself to the fact she didn't want my help. I sat by and watched her do her homework. I corrected her when she wrote that if 66-33=x then x=99, but otherwise I pretty much sat silent.
When she finished the problems she knew how to do she started packing up. She was done. "Wait. I'll show you how to do those other ones since we're both here."

She got the first one fine. I think it was a fluke, because the second problem that was almost exactly the same stumped her. "Just do the same thing you did for the last problem."
"I'm not doing it. I don't know how."
"OK. I'll explain it."
I tried to break things down to her. 8/8 =1. 1xZ=Z. "So you just divide..."
"Do you have a girlfriend?"
"..."
"Because maybe if you got some you'd be a little bit more relaxed and you'd shut up."

She's 14 and she thinks sex is a great way to relieve tension. When I was 14 sex did not relieve tension. It was the source of virtually all tension in my life. I hope I get some today. Is that girl looking at me? Will she have sex with me?

Apparently sex still plays a central role in my life. Not in a normal way, in a perverted way. I was at going away shindig for Sarah complete with jalapeño poppers last night when Jessica told me again I was a pervert. That everything I talk about is perverted.

God. All I did was tell a story about dipping my genitals into a glass of milk after someone poured hot sauce all over them.

Title lifted from "For Tension" by Superchunk because I already used up my one original thought.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 01:31 PM | Comments (0)

January 26, 2005

Tough Wine Bottle

"I don't have a hammer. It says we need a hammer."
"I'm sure we can do without. We could use a piece of wood or something."

"Nope. That doesn't work. I'm sure you have something else hard enough around here."

Why does putting together a futon require tools not included in the package? Don't they know that people that buy futons that require assembly don't have tools lying around the house? Are they in it with the hammer companies. I bet they are. They're in it together. I know it.

"Hey. We can use this wine bottle as a hammer. Wine bottles are pretty tough." I know wine bottles are tough. I routinely bang the end into walls to open them without the aid of a corkscrew. My dad taught me a few years back. -- "You just get a towel or something, fold it up, find a hard wall or a stud, grab the neck of the bottle and bang the end against the wall -- with the towel in between. The cork comes out so that you can just grab it and pull it out."

I tried it out with some hesitation. I didn't want to smash the bottle. Nothing happened. So I hit it harder against the wall. Then, sure enough, the cork began to creep out of the bottle. A little bit with each impact with the wall.

The next party I went to saw my arrival with a bottle of wine in hand -- a bottle of Portugese "green" wine. "Check this out. I can open this bottle without a corkscrew."
"I've got one in the kitchen."
"No. I don't need one. I can open it without one."
"Why? I've got a corkscrew."
"Yeah, but that's not as cool as my way."
"Are you just going to push the cork in? There's nothing cool about that. I do that all the time."
"Yeah. that's another way. I do that too, but it's not as loud and sometimes you don't have a butter knife or whatever you use."
"I use a pencil or something."
"See. Wood doesn't grow on trees."
"Umm. Yeah, it does."
"I know it does. Just get me a towel and let me get this over with."

I took the bottle and towel to the wall in the living room. Luckily the house was cinderblock, or some sort of concrete, so it didn't matter where I did my little trick. I started banging the bottle against the wall. The people paying attention started to look a little startled, some scared. "Don't worry. I've done this before. The bottle doesn't break."
The cork came out quickly. Much quicker than it did the first time. I'm getting much better at this. Oh. It's almost out. Just one more time.
It turns out the cork was coming out so quickly because it was under more pressure than the time before - green wine is carbonated. With my "last" hit to the wall I found this out. Half the bottle's contents sprayed across the room, much of it spraying the opposite wall.
Mental note: Do not use green wine for amazing wine bottle/wall opening trick.

About a year later at a party at my house I made a remark about the wine bottle/wall opening trick and was pressured to do it. "Come on! Let's see."
"No. I don't think the walls here are strong enough."
"Do it in the basement."
"Or do it here. This part seems hard enough."
It did. The small section of wall jutting out to make some deformed arch seperating my apartment's kitchen from the living room did seem hard enough. "OK."

With the first smack I felt something strange. Did I break the bottle? was my first thought. But I didn't notice any wine spilled. I was about to deliver another blow when I thought Maybe, just maybe, it was the wall. I removed the towel and chunks of plaster fell to the floor. There was a new hole, much bigger in diameter than the wine bottle, in the wall.
Mental note. Don't do wine bottle/wall opening trick at home.

I had a small container of spackle in the house, but nothing else for the job. I didn't feel much like going to the store to get the supplies, but there wasn't enough spackle to fill the hole.
Then it hit me. Rocks. I can mix rocks and spackle to fill the hole. I have rocks in the driveway. So I went out to the driveway and grabbed a handfull of rocks. I mixed them with the spackle and filled up the hole.
A couple days later I went back to my hole ingeniously filled with those free, and easily attained rocks. I used the rest of spackle and my finger to smooth everything out. When that dried I used a little sandpaper to do the final smoothing.
Or to try to do the final smoothing.
The rocks stuck out. Oh well, it's a rental.
(It seems strange to me that the lumpy wall covered in a different shade of white did not effect my security deposit, but I had to pay $50 to have the oven, which I never used, cleaned.)
Mental note: Never mind. Do it in rentals. No problem. Especially if it's the kind of rental where the landlord never fixes the leak in the roof you tell him about every time you pay rent.

I thought I had it down. I knew to use only normal red or white wine and to do the trick at others' houses. So I had no problem doing it on the front of my neighbors' row house when I moved to Baltimore.
We were hanging out on my stoop and had just finished off a forty. We wer both looking for something more to drink. We talked about going down to the bar to get another 40 when I remembered I had a bunch of wines inside. I had stocked up on Chilean Merlots earlier in the week (Chilean wines giving you the most bang for your buck). "Check this out. I'll be right back." I ran inside and grabbed a bottle of wine and a towel.
Back outside I started banging the wine bottle against the side of his house.
"Whachu doin'? You's gonna bust that bottle!"
"No. It's OK. I've done this before. The cork just pops out."

I banged and banged the bottle against the wall. My arm was getting tired. I took a short break, but then returned with extra vigour. "I'm going to get this cork out without -- Shit!"
The bottle smashed. Wine splashed all over me. All over the towel. The house. The sidewalk. It was a cheap Chilean bottle, so everything smelled like vinegar. I looked down at the neck of the bottle still in my hand. That's when I noticed a shard of glass about 4 inches long had nestled half of it's self into my hand. I pulled it out and ran inside the house for something I could use as a bandage. And another bottle of wine.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 01:26 PM | Comments (5)

January 25, 2005

"Blizzard" Weekend 3

The search for a sled was looking fruitless. The dollar store. The home improvement superwarehouse. Sears. The Eastpoint Mall. "What about that dollar store."
"It doesn't look open."
It wasn't. That left Wal-Mart. "If anyplace has cheapo sleds it's Wal-Mart. Is there one around here?"

We went down to the WalMart on North Point Drive. I never knew it existed probably because I never felt the need to go. But now. Now there was sledding to be done and I had no sled. It was a last resort (Honest, political prisoners in China lucky enough not to be executed.)

I walked in, passed the mildly retarded greeter (a position to which a girl I once dated actually aspired) and continued into the store in search of a sled. "Where do you think the sleds would be."
"Over in sporting goods."
"Yes. Let's go."
We went back to the sporting goods section. On the way Emma pointed to a huge plastic bin, "We could use the lid to that if we can't find a sled."
"No way. This is Wal Mart. They'll have a sled. Don't they have everything? They're not open 24 hours for nothing."
We walked through the sports section. Past the kids bikes, past the fishing gear, past the rifles. "Did you see any sleds?"
"No. I think they'd be back by the kids' stuff though."
"I'll ask him." I went up to the guy guarding the rifle counter, "Where are your sleds."
"We don't have any."
"You don't have ANY sleds?"
"Nope. No sleds."
"Are you messing with me?"
"Nope. No sleds. Honest."
"Damn."

"How can the not have any sleds? That's unbelievable." More than half the people in the store were looking for sleds, stopping other customers asking them if they had seen sleds and the employees said that they didn't have sleds not in a way as to imply they had ran out, but they had never had them at all.
"They've got to have something we can use as a sled."
"What about those plastic things you pointed out on the way in."
"Yeah. They'd work."
"Hey! What about this skateboard? We could take the trucks off and use it as a snowboard."

We were walking toward the cashier with a huge "under bed storage" bin and a cheap skateboard decorated with a cow with a gas problem when a creepy little old man with the smudgy beginings of prison tattoo under his left approached us. "You're not gonna ride that are you?"
"Yeah."
"Those wheels suck. They're no good. It's a piece of junk" The guy was easily 50 years old.
"We're going to take the trucks off and use it to sled with."
"That's about all it's good for."
I can never get over how some people feel so free to approach others in public and talk to them like they're old friends. Here this old man felt free to come up to us and tell us the stuff we were buying was total crap.
Then he followed us. "Going sledding huh?"
"Ah. Yeah."
He got behind us in line for the cash register. There were several open registers. He chose to follow us. "You ever hear of Arundel Concrete?"
"No."
"Doesn't matter. They were selling truck tire inner tubes..."

We left Wal Mart and returned to my house only slipping and almost crashing once. There we ripped apart the skateboard, grabbed a four pack (six packs never seem to stay intact at my house) and rushed out to utilize the last couple minutes of daylight. "Where do you want to sled? Patterson Park or a super secret place I know about that no one else will have sledded on yet. We can drink our beer while we sled there."
"Let's go there then."

We went to the super secret sledding hill in an abandoned industrial complex down the street. We entered through a hole in the fence and climbed the huge man-made pile of earth I only days later came to think could possibly have been toxic. It was a huge pile of sand and stones, bigger than any one hill in Patterson Park. It had a slight slope on one side and a look-death-in-the-eye slope on the other. I was considering taking it, and would have had it not been for the trees throughout the slope.
I settled for the more mildly sloped side.
I grabbed the bin part of the under bed storage bin. It was about 5 feet long, 2 feet wide and maybe 6 inches deep. I held the "sled" in front of me. I prepared to perform another run-jump-sled like I had earlier in the day. Only this time I planned on not knocking my wind out and actually going down the hill. "Here I go!" I ran and eased more than jumped onto my stomach.
The sled broke into pieces as I got onto it. Immediately thereafter it sunk into the snow and I flew forward onto my face. I performed an as much now in the face and down the shirt vairant of a somersault as humanly possible, but other than that I went nowhere.
For some reason Emma thought it was funny.

After making an initial path the sledding was much easier. We alternated between the bin lib, which, luckily was made of a non-break-right-away plastic, and the skateboard, which proved to be the most awkward of all conceivable sleds. The slightest bump either forced it to an immediate stop throwing the rider off and down the hill or simply threw the rider off while it raced down the hill.

Still, the snow pile kept the beers cold and what some call light pollution kept the hill illuminated enough for us to have a good time. But eventually we left sighting the need for food and a hankering for a box of chillable red wine. "It's going to snow more tonight. We'll come back tomorrow."

But the "blizzard" wussed out on us. There was no more snow.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 02:11 PM | Comments (2)

"Blizzard" Weekend 2

This past weekend's snowfall projection was declining throughout the week prior. Rumor was the forecast was for 2 feet. Then 12-18 inches. By Friday night the forecast was for 8-12 inches. Still that was enough. I envisioned myself sledding at top speed down a huge hill. Then, after a full day of sledding going home for a huge mug, or if not a huge mug then at least my favorite mug with "ED WACKER" printed on the side, of hot chocolate. Or maybe whiskey. Or maybe just beer, but I thought that might get old since I'd probably bring a bunch with me sledding.
That vision was downgraded when I realized there were no monsterous hills anywhere near my house. The revised version had me sledding for a good part of the weekend on a hill, most likely at Patterson Park. But I didn't have a sled.
So I looked for one Friday on my way home from work. I found nothing. But I really wasn't worried, there was no hint of snowfall. The snow wasn't projected to start falling until Saturday morning, so I figured I could just go to the store before it got too bad and pick up a sled. I heard a rumor the dollar store in the strip mall housing Santoni's sold sleds so I wouldn't even have to drive anywhere.

So, first thing in the morning I'd pick up a sled and then I'd be able to sled all day.

What a romantic vision I had.

I woke about 3pm. Not only was the snow well underway, but that left me with about an hour and a half of sunlight. I hurried out of my house, past the neighborhood kids sledding on the hill where my neighbor takes her dogs out to shit and fails to clean up. I won't be sledding on that hill. I walked as quickly as possible through the snow down to the strip mall only to find the dollar store didn't sell sleds. I know they sold sleds last year. That's what Noah told me. Noah is my now 6 year old neighbor. He had to get a new sled after I sat on his old one and cracked it in half. I'd have to drive somewhere to get a sled.
I got Emma to come with me. I figured I have a truck, I wouldn't get stuck in what, 3 inches of snow? Besides the sled I planned on picking up a couple hundred pounds of sand to throw in the bed so that I would have better traction. Then I'll never get stuck in the snow.
We got about a block from my house before getting stuck.
There is a bridge over some railroad tracks just around the corner from my house. I never amde it over the incline. The truck just stopped, not even a thrid of the way up, and spun its tires. I tried a couple different things to get it to move again -- as much as I could do without leaving the truck. I turned up the heat. I turned up the radio. To no avail.
Every time I stepped on the gas the tires simply spun. I tried rocking the car back and forth. Moving backward was not a problem, but going forward -- the truck and I had differing ideas about what distance was considered "forward progress" so I decided I would try to get the truck turned around. then we could either go home or find a better plowed route.
I watched a couple cars come past. Then I looked in my rear view mirror to find a snow plow. If we just left 5 minutes later -- The plow passed us pushing a mound of snow in our direction. I tried to get the truck in the plowed section of the road. The truck said "no." Perhaps because it couldn't cross the newly formed mound of snow, but I think because it was mad at me. It was, by all reports, a good weekend for cuddling, and I took the truck from its parking spot where it was cuddling with my neighbors' cute little VW.
We continued going nowhere when the plow appeared over the crest of the bridge from the opposite direction. It slowed when it saw my little truck still spinning its tires part way up the incline. "Stay there, we'll come around." the driver yelled out the window as he stopped next to my truck. Woah. Is he going to give me a ticket for blocking a plow? Can he give tickets? Go. Come on, truck. We started to move. I wanted us to start to move.
I don't think we actually moved.
Maybe they're going to help. Do city employees offer to help? No way. Not the cashiers at city hall. They sit there for 5 minutes without acknowledging your presence when you go to pay the absurd fines the city gives. Ahh. But these are snow plow drivers. A totally different breed. Maybe they actually help. That'd be excellent.
The plow stopped behind the truck and two guys jumped out. The three of us pushed while Emma drove. Actually Emma drove while the three of us tried our hardest to stay upright behind the truck. We weren't as much effective at pushing it up the hill as we were at using our bodies to keep it from rolling backward. After about 15 minutes of pushing (and me occassionally walking up to the cab to draw fanged smiley faces on the window) we crested the hill.
I thanked the guys and they turned around toward the newly stuck truck between them and their plow.
I went up to the cab and challenged Emma to a race down the hill. "I'll race you down."
It was slippery even at the apex so she had trouble gaining speed while I had no trouble at all. But my idea was not to run down the hill. I was going to run, jump and slide down the hill on my belly.
I got the run and jump part down, but instead of sliding down on my belly I performed more of a belly flop. I knocked my wind out and returned to the truck gasping for breath.

Then we got stuck again. And again.
After twenty more minutes we made it two blocks to Eastern Ave. The going was quicker there. We were moving forward most of the time. It took only 5 minutes to get the five blocks or so to the local home improvement superwarehouse. There I planned to buy a shovel, several bags of sand and a sled. They had everything but a sled.
"Where can we get a sled?"
"The East Point Mall, maybe."
"I've never been there. I don't think I've been to any mall since I've moved here. What stores do they have there?"
"Umm. Sears might have one."
"Yeah. Ok."

We went down to the mall which less than ten cars in the parking lot. As soon as we got inside we noticed no store was open. "Shit. Nothing's open."
"Something's got to be open."
"It doesn't look like it. Look even the airbrush stand is closed. I think I need my name airbrushed on a license plate for my truck. Remind me to come back here."
"Yeah. That'd be pretty nice."
"Hey. Sears is open."
"Are you sure?" There were about six employees standing in the doorway. They looked as if they were about to lower the fence-like mall door.
"Let's try. They're sure to have a sled."
We made it in between all the employees, not on acknowledging our presence. "Yes! We made it." then we began our search for a sled.
To our consternation they had no sleds. "No sleds?"
"No."
"But this is Sears."
"Yeah."
"Does any place around here have sleds?"
"The mall closed at 4pm. Maybe Wal-Mart."
As evil as I believe Wal-Mart is I threw my values to the wind -- we needed a sled. "If that dollar store outside doesn't have sleds we'll go to Wal-mart."
"OK. Let's go."

That was easier said than done. The mall did indeed close at 4 and the entrance to Sears closed as well. There seemed to be no way out. We wandered the store, ignored by all the employees and security guards. "Hey! Hey, you! Hey! How do we get out of here?" The sent us out the back door. We had to pass all the broken, returned merchandise to get to the exit next to the dumpster and piles of carboard boxes.
"Cardboard boxes! Watch this."

Emma and I crafted sleds out of carboard torn from the bails bundled for recycling. Mine was the larger of the two. It was approximately 12x18 inches. Let's go down the hill.

I jumped on my sled and went head first. Instead of moving it sunk into the snow. Emma got about halfway down the hill.
On my second try I made it down the 8 foot incline. "These sleds suck. Let's go get some real ones."

Posted by calculatoronfire at 12:52 PM | Comments (2)

January 24, 2005

Fridge

I thought my fridge was inferior to other refrigerators until I got to know it.

Today I found it has a quick release shelf for beers. Swear to god. It's got this place in the door that fits a six pack. Right there in the door. I don't even have to reach in or bend over.

It's times like this my unlimited calling plan comes in handy.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 09:09 PM | Comments (7)

"Blizzard" Weekend 1

Despite the threat of a blizzard arriving in Baltimore in the wee hours of Saturday morning (or what I like to call late Friday night) Emma and I decided to go out to see a jazz show at the Caton Castle Friday.
Neither of us had been to, nor heard of, the Caton Castle, but decided to go since the show sounded good and the online map made it look like it was on Caton Ave just north of I-95. After meandering around Batimore's west side - going north on South Caton until it changed names to South Hilton, turning the wrong way on West Caton, which turned out not to actually be West Caton, doubling back and finding West Caton - and touring the Charm City's beautiful west side at the same time, we found the Caton Castle.
"I wonder if this is going to one of those places where we're the only white people?"
It definitely had the signs the signs we'd be white islands. I think the proper name of the establishment we were about to enter was "Caton Castle Carry-Out Liquors and lounge." There was a lot of bullet-proof glass. "I don't know. Could be. Let's see."
"Things are fun that way."

We went up to the building. There were three doors. Two looked like they opened to a liquor store. The other appeared to open to the "lounge" portion of the building. We headed toward the lounge door. Walking past windows that opened to the lounge I noticed that it not only looked like we would be the only white people, but we'd be the only white people in a 10x15 foot room. "Are you sure this is the place?"
"It seems right. -- Which bell do you think I should ring?" There were two door bells next to the door; one looked to be a normal doorbell, the other an intercom type.
"I don't know. Try both." She did. We waited.
Nothing.

After about a minute someone from inside the lounge knocked on the window and said, "Go in the other door." we went to the next door. One of the doors that looked to open to the liquor store. It was locked. We tried the next, a heavy, yellowing bullet-proof glass door. It opened to the liquor store fortified better than "the army that youhave"'s Humvees.

Inside a door opened to the small lounge. As we stepped in the patrons looked a bit shocked to see such pale people. "Are you here to watch me play?" One of them asked.
"Yeah."
"I'll be in there in a minute." He pointed to a door at the back of the lounge.

The door opened to a hall filled with tables. There was a piano, a parquet dance floor and about 6 people. We were about to sit down when one man asked, "You here for the show?"
"Yeah."
"It's supposed to be tomorrow. It's postponed"
"It's tomorrow?"
"Yeah. It's postponed till the 5th."
"So it's not tomorrow? It's the 5th?"
"No. It's postponed till the 5th because of the blizzard."
"OK. So the 5th. Not today or tomorrow."
"Yeah. It said today but it's supposed to be tomorrow, but it's not. It's postponed till the 5th. He'll be using a Roland [something or another]."
"Wow."
Then came the small talk. Unfortunately it all went something like this to me:
"[Something or another]."
"Really?"
"[Something or another]?"
"Yeah?"
Unable to understand the man we tried to politely excuse ourselves to formulate a plan B in the car. We got through the door, back into the lounge.
"Oh, you came for the show?"
"Yeah."
"Well you coming back on the 5th?"
"Sure. We'll be back."
"You better be ready to do some drinking."
Was this a challenge? Do they think we're not up to it? "You think we're not up to it?"
"We'll do some drinking now." -Emma.
"Alright. You my people. Get whatever you want. On me. -- What do you want?"
I saw 16 ounce can of Steel Reserve sitting near the bar. "I want a Steel." "Steel" being the proper way to refer to Steel Reserve.
"Me too."
"What? People drinking Steel in the bar? That's something else."
There was some talk amongst the customers and the bartenders - for some reason there was one bartender for every 2 patrons. "Steel? In the bar?" "They're hardcore." "That's my drink."

One of the bartenders left the bar to the attached liquor store to grab two cans of Steel Reserve. She came back and gave me my can. She asked Emma if she wanted a cup.
"No, thanks."
"Are you sure?"
"I don't need a cup."
"A straw at least?"
"No. No straw. Just the can is fine."
"Nothin'?"
"Just the can."
She stuck a straw in the can and pushed it over to Emma. Then went back to serving mixed drinks for the other clients; the liquor coming out of single serving plastic bottles.

As we left someone called out after us, "I better see you here on the 5th!"

Posted by calculatoronfire at 03:56 PM | Comments (0)

Unanswered Prayer

How can this be? The streets are not covered with snow today.

After this weekend's snow storm's poor performance I prayed for a snow day. It was a simple request, "God, please let it snow a lot tonight so that tomorrow the roads are real shitty and I don't have to go to work."
How could It have turned Its back on me and my request?

Should I have not also asked to win the lottery?

Posted by calculatoronfire at 12:39 PM | Comments (0)

January 21, 2005

Time of Kitchen Employment

I used to work at TGI Fridays. I was an expediter. I had no idea what the job entailed when I was hired. What the hell is an expediter? I thought.
It turns out the expediter position is for people that can't cook, have no idea how to wait tables and refuse to wash dishes. It's the expediter's job to group by table the plates placed under the heat lamp by the cooks, then when the entire table's plates are under the heat lamp, some for upwards of 15-120 minutes, to hand them to the correct server. At the TGI Fridays just off the Magnificent Mile in Chicago the job also requires the expediter to withdstand extra stress as all the homosexual male servers constantly hug him, ask him for kisses and ask to sex him up (the one most intensely being the server that looks like a skeleton covered with overly tanned leather pulled taut against its bones and topped with a cowboy hat that looks to be stolen from a 5 year old restaurant patron). The job there is made easier by the back and shoulder rubs given by aforementioned homosexual male servers, unfortunately that alleviation in pressure is countered by the crazy little Venezualan dishwasher who several times a night sneaks up behind the expediter and grabs his (ie the expediter's) ass with his vice-like Venezualan dishwasher hands causing what can only be referred to as an "extreme pain in the ass."
The expediter is also required to maintain a constant supply of soft bread sticks. The bread sticks are stored in a small oven at his feet, which unfortunately hardens the bread sticks over time and is constantly opened by excited servers slamming the door into the expediter's shins, but are cooked in an oven in the exact opposite corner of the kitchen. An oven which, for some reason or another, tends to burn bread sticks if they are left in the oven for too long.
The expediter must be quick with languages as all but one of the cooks speaks, exclusively, Spanish and he must interact with them as an intermediary between them and the servers (who are over 90% male homosexuals). For example, he must be able to determine which pinche pendeho [I know my spelling of spanish slang is lacking, but the rough translation is 'fucking faggot.'] to which a cook refers. He must also learn Spanish words for his favorite dishes the cooks will prepare for him on the sly, but only if he asks in Spanish.
The expediter must also stand in the same spot for his entire shift, except when running over to the oven to pull out a pan of burnt bread sticks and insert a new pan of soon-to-be burnt bread sticks, which may cause him to identify with US postal employees who claim that it is the job, because of its intensity and monotony, that drives them to slaughter their co-workers.
He must also be able to grab, with his bare hands, those plates that the servers warn customers not to touch because they are "extremely hot." The plates, by the way, getting so hot because they sit under the same heatlamp for 15-20 minutes that the expediter must stand in front of his entire shift.

I started working there because the guy that lived in the apartment downstairs from me was the one cook that spoke English and informed me that if I applied I'd have the job. That guy then quit very soon after I started working there because he found a better paying, less demanding job very nearby.
The TGI Fridays job was so intense because it was the cheapest full service restaurant in the downtown/magnificent mile area, so it was a great place for cheap tourist families, high schoolers on dates and pimp daddy ghetto folk looking to impress their dates by ordering the most expensive items on the menu without actually spending a large amount of money. The job my neighbor moved to was on the other side of the block and closer to the magnificent mile, in a bar that took what seemed like great effort to disguise the fact that they had a kitchen. He claimed that even though he was the only person in the kitchen he spent most of his time studying and filling containers with mayonnaise for the following day's lunch rush -- which was apparently rather large because the office employees in the area somehow found out about the kitchen hidden in a building detached from the one housing the bar.

One night after getting drunk with a couple friends from out of town I decided to drive from my house on the south side to the bar where my friend, as a bar employee, could no doubt get us free drinks. We hopped in my car and drove downtown.
Along the way the driver of almost every car flashed their lights at us. It started to bother me. What the hell? I have my headlights on! What do they want? Once we arrived at the bar I got out of the car and looked at my headlight. Shit! They're both burnt out. "They were flashing their lights at us 'cause my headlights are burnt out. Check it out."
"Dude. That's messed up."
"Good thing I didn't get pulled over."
Returning to the car I noticed we were parked in a no parking zone. I drove around the block looking for a parking spot but couldn't find one. "Damn. We're not going to find a spot."
"It's like 1:30. We're not going to be long, just park in that loading dock." There was a loading dock for the office building across the street.
"Cool." I parked in the dock and we went inside.

"Is Dan here?"
"Who?"
"Dan. The cook."
"Oh, no. No one was ordering so we sent him home early." We weren't getting any free beers.

"Let's go then guys. I don't have any money."
"You drove all the way down here, I'll buy you a drink."

We each had one drink before heading back to the headlight-less car. "Hey. Is that a chain?"
"Is what a chain?"
"Dude. They chained my car into the loading dock."
"No way. We were only in there like 15 minutes."
"Check it out. That's a chain." There definitely was a chain across the loading dock. It was usually there to prevent people from parking in the dock, like I just had, but upon finding my car in the dock was used to keep me from leaving. "What the hell am I supposed to do now?"
We brainstormed: "Your roommate. Does he have a bolt cutter?"
"No. Why would he have a bolt cutter?"
"Just checking."
"He's not home anyway."
"Do you know anyone with bolt cutters?"
"I never asked."
"You could just go inside and ask them to unlock you."
"I think they locked me in here for a reason. I'm sure they want money or something."
"Yeah."
"Hey. Your car is pretty short." True. It was a 1989 Toyota Corolla.
"So?"
"Maybe you can fit underneath?"
"I guess it's worth a shot."
My two friends each grabbed the chain, one on each side of the car, and lifted it as high as possible. I got in the car and backed up slowly. I heard the chain hit the top of the car as I backed up. "Will I fit?"
"Sorry, I just dropped it. You'll fit."
I began backing up again. The chain scraped the roof of the car. "I thought you said it'd fit?"
"It's barely touching."
I backed out into the street, the chain scraping the roof the entire time. "Get in the car!" I saw a security guard coming. They jumped in and we sped off.

Driving down the street the guy in the back seat grabbed my shoulder, "Dude. Turn your lights on or you'll get pulled over."

Posted by calculatoronfire at 04:01 PM | Comments (5)

Lightly Sleeping

This morning I woke up early and tried to remember my dream. I have never been able to remember my dreams and I've decided that from today on I'm going to remember them. So last night before I went to sleep I told myself, "I will remember my dream. I will remember my dream." I read in some articles that is supposed to work. (I also said, "I will find $200 on the sidewalk. I will find $200 on the sidewalk." That hasn't worked yet.)
When I woke up I was disappointed; I couldn't remember my dream. What? How can this be? I told myself I would remember. Then it came to me - a 1984 light brown Oldsmobile Cutlas Supreme:

With two eggs smashed on the back window. (Sorry, I couldn't find any pictures of 1984 Oldsmobiles with eggs smashed on the back window.)
Anything else? I was excited I had remembered that much, but I still wanted more. What was going on? What was happening? Was I driving? I drew a blank. Nothing. Just a car with eggs on the back window. I went back to sleep hoping that I would dream again, this time remembering a little bit more.

But I couldn't fall asleep. There was a bird in the ceiling. What? A bird in the ceiling? I thought I sealed up the hole. I know I sealed up the whole. Was it there all day and all night? No way. I didn't hear anything. Maybe it was alseep and it just woke up. I heard it scurrying around in the ceiling. Pecking at the light fixture. Picking up and dropping a marble or something. A marble? Is that a marble? Why is there a marble in the ceiling? No, it's probably just a nut. NO! I hope it's not a nut. It'll eat it and stay alive longer. I'll never sleep again.
Then I remembered I read drinking before you go to sleep makes you sleep lighter. So if I don't drink before I go to sleep there's a better chance I'll sleep through the racket in the ceiling. I guessed that I wasn't able to go back to sleep because I drank the night before. At the PITS.

Not long after I arrived at the corner bar the Bankrupt Millionaire Male Prostitute Hitman came in. After a bit he again asked (he had the previous day as well), "Is this a gay bar? I've never been to a gay bar before."
Gene, the bartender, retorted, "Don't believe him. He's the biggest cock sucker in the city of Baltimore!"
"That's not true. I've never had a homosexual experience."
"Liar. I saw you sucking cock in the Unicorn back in the 80s."
"Oh, that's right. I've had one homosexual experience."
"With five guys."
"Well, it was an experience."

A while later, out of the blue, he began to tell a story. "I once got a cucumber stuck up my ass and had to go to the hospital to get it out."
"Oh, really?"
"Yeah. I had to tell the doctors that I was making a salad -- making a salad naked -- when I dropped a cucumber. I bent down to pick it up and it landed upright the long way -- it went right up my ass when I bent down. It was all oily from the salad dressing, you know?"
"What'd they say?"
"Not much about that, it's just that I was wearing ladies underwear. All mine were dirty, see, so I had to wear a pair of panties I had around. It must have looked strange to them. A guy in women's underwear with a cucumber up his ass."
"Do you think they figured you out?"
"Oh, it didn't matter to them. They were all gay anyway. The doctors the orderlies. All gay."
"Really?"
"Oh, yeah. I had to go back another time to get a coke bottle pulled out of my ass. a glass coke bottle."
"You stick a lot of things up your ass?"
"Oh yeah. All sorts of things. I started with a frozen banana. I peeled it and stuck it in the freezer."
"Wasn't that cold?"
"Hell yeah. That's why I switched to cucumbers. -- A lot of people like sex. They search out partners; it's a real challenge for them. I like sticking things in my ass. I spend hours finding the right cucumbers. I have to check every one in the store. I grab every one. I try to find just the right one -- size and shape."
"Wow."
"Oh yeah. I love it."

Posted by calculatoronfire at 12:33 PM | Comments (2)

January 20, 2005

He Always Makes the PITS More Fun?

"Sweet! Look who's here."
"The squawking guy?"
"Yep."

Going to the PITS is always more fun when the bankrupt millionaire male prostitute hitman that squawks like a bird is there.
Last night he was. He was actually the only customer besides Emma, Daniel, Rachel and me (you can't count Alfredo, Gene the bartender's boyfriend, who sits and plays the porno picture match thing all night, because he doesn't buy any drinks).
When we all arrived he moved from the video poker machine to the bar and started up in his gravelly drunken voice, "I'd watch out if I were you. I heard this was a gay bar."
"Oh, yeah?"
"That's what I heard."
"Inside voice, John. Use your inside voice or I'll have to send you home." Gene the bartender chastized John.
"Gene. I heard this is a gay bar. Is this a gay bar?"
"Ever since you walked in."

John is in the PITS just about every time I go. He's sort of a fixture. A fixture that gets drunk and yells about how he wants to have sex with everyone in the room or complains that there are too many straight people in the bar. "I've never been to a gay bar before. Is this a gay bar?"
"You never been to a gay bar before?" I was humoring him. The guy is gay and about 65 years old. He's obviously been to a gay bar before.
"Nope. Never."
"No. He's just lived in them all." Gene added.
"No, I haven't. I'm not gay -- you're not gay if you don't kiss 'em."
"I thought it was, 'you're not gay if you don't like it.'" They both seemed to like that one.

Daniel leaned over to me and asked the loud guy next to me was the bankrupt millionaire male prostitute hitman. "Yep."
"I want to get him to talk about being a hitman."
"Careful, man. He doesn't have an off button."
"Why are you two getting so close over there? You're not gay." It's true, we aren't, but Daniel decided to pretend we were. He rubbed my back for a second or two. BMMPH saw, "I hate gays. They're not human. they're worse than cross dressers."
"John, you were a drag queen, weren't you? Or was it just your brother?" - Gene
"I wasn't a cross dresser. I just did it sometimes."
"You're brother was a drag queen though, wasn't he?"
"No. He wasn't a drag queen, he was a transgender individual."

The two told us about John's brother.
The brother was born a man but had a sex change and after the sex change dressed as a man.

Then John told us about his brother's murder. His death was called a hate crime. Six guys attacked him then shot him in the head.

Then John sacastically yelled out, "Killing a fag is not a crime in the State of Maryland."
"I can second that." Gene said. Then he told us about a guy he knew who dressed in drag at a Latin bar. When the guys found out he was a man they beat him to death, cut off two of his finger and his penis and shoved the penis in his mouth. He was found still dressed in drag with hi penis in his mouth floating in the Patapsco River. The Arundel County police ruled it an "accidental drowning."

I was relieved when the topic was changed to John's failing electronics store.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 03:24 PM | Comments (0)

Haircut

Yesterday I decided to get a haircut, so after I was advised to leave the office early on account of the snow storm (2") I headed out to the psychic barber. Normally the psychic barber is only about 15 minutes out of my way on the way home, but yesterday traffice was horrible. After about 35 minutes I had gone about 11 miles; I figured it would take me at least 40 minutes to get to the psychic barber so I decided not to go there.

I had another place in mind - Phil's Barber Shop. Phil runs an old man barber shop on Eastern Ave near Patterson Park. I went there once before, before he raised the price of a cut to $9.00. That put him nearly a dollar more than the psychic barber, and effectively out of my price range. Plus he doesn't include psychic readings in the price of a cut.

Phil does, however, talk endlessly about sports and how he can better decorate his barber shop with more sports memorabilia. The walls of his shop are covered with newspaper clippings, and posters. He has dozens of little soccer balls, baseballs, footballs, hockey pucks, etc suspended from the ceiling. He has team logos embossed in leather on a shelf that runs above the mirror.
I made the mistake of commenting on them.
Then I received a 45 minute lecture about leather tooling. "I made those all myself. I'm going to make one for every professional sports team." He showed me his tools, his leather, his leather tooling cataloges. He told me about the prices. He told me about how he makes his friends and family tooled leather booties when they have children.
It was the longest haircut of my life. Until Yesterday.

Phil's Sport/Leather Tooling Barber Shop was closed because of the couple inches of snow. So I went a little farther down the street to Tom's Barber Shop. Tom closed early because of the storm too. I continued down the street. There were no barber shops. I turned off Eastern onto Dundalk Ave. I figured people in Dundalk had to get their hair cut. There had to be someplace in Dundalk.
Sure enough, there was a place. Avana's Hair Academy. A sign outside advertised their $6 haircuts.
Sweet! That's well inside my price range.

I went inside Avana's and found nothing had been changed since the early 60s. The old aluminum coffee pot, the barber chairs, the felt banner advertising some no longer existent line of hair care products. I stepped up to one of the people behind one of the two counters, "Who do I talk to about getting a haircut?"
The guy with the coke-bottle glasses that made his eyes look about the size of the team logos Phil kept above his mirror answered me, "What sort of haircut do you want?"
"Like the one I have now, but shorter."
"What would you call it?"
"I've heard it called a 'high 'n tight'."
"OK. she can help you." He pointed at a girl sitting in the waiting area.
"Ah uh. I'm on my lunch break Mr Gibbons." It was just after 4pm.
"OK -- Jenny, Can you do a high 'n tight?" Jenny nodded that she could.

I walked back to Jenny's chair. I passed at least ten other chairs placed in front of mirrors sure to be made with mercury lining walls otherwise covered with lead paint and tar from stale cigarette smoke.
I sat down in Jenny's chair and she proceded to ask me, no less than 3 times, how I wanted my hair cut. When she finally figured that I was telling the truth, that my intentions were pure, or whatever, she began cutting my hair.
I get my hair cut with an electric trimmer. The kind you put a guard on then rub on someone's head to cut their hair a uniform length. I figure cutting hair like that must be pretty easy for a barber and most of the time barbers cut my hair in less than 15 minutes, save Phil, supporting my hypothesis, but for some reason it took Jenny over 45 minutes.
She changed guards at least 10 times. From one to another back to the first. Repeat. Then came the scissors for the top.
When she was done she called over Mr Gibbons, the crazy-eyed teacher. He came over with his glasses atop his head and told her how she did a pretty good job, but she screwed things up here and there. How can he tell without his glasses? They're like an inch thick and he can tell without them on? What did she do? Then he started cutting my hair.
I wasn't scared when Jenny was cutting my hair, just a little surprised at how long it was taking. But now a blind man was cutting my hair. It'll grow back, Brian. Don't worry. It'll grow back.

Over an hour after I first sat in the chair Jenny sent me out the door. From what I can tell it is a good hair cut. And cheap. And I feel like I helped someone further their career.
So now I'm torn. Should I go back to get a cheap ($6), albeit long, cut and lend my head to some students or get a cheap ($8) cut and a psychic reading? Maybe I can switch off between the two.

I need to make a decision in the next two weeks.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 01:39 PM | Comments (8)

The Birds

I don't remember my dreams. I know everyone dreams, so I must, but I don't remember them except on rare occassion. When I take a short nap or hit the snooze bar there is a chance I'll remember my dream - one of those semi-lucid dreams - but that only happens once every two months or so.

I'm fed up with this reality crap filling my head. I want some dreams -- some imaginary stuff. Maybe if I remember my dreams I'll finally develop some sort of imagination.

So last night I vowed that I was going to remember my dream. I grabbed Marlene, my sweetness, my tape recorder, and placed her by my bedside. I planned on grabbing her first thing in the morning and telling her the first few things that passed through my mind.

But when I woke up in the morning all I could think of was birds.

I woke to the sound of birds chirping. Wow. It sounds like birds. Am I dreaming? I live in the city. There are hardly any birds around here. Plus it's winter. There can't be birds around here this time of year.
I buried my head in my pillow put still heard birds. There have got to be birds out there. But they sound like they're right outside my window and they can't be; there are no trees around my house.
The chirping kept up and then I started hearing some thumping around.
Then came the sound of bird footsteps on my ceiling. A bird, at least one, got inside my house and was walking on the other side of my ceiling. It sounded like it was about 5 pounds. *Thump. Thump Scratch. Scratch.* The bird was definitely inside my house. In my ceiling. Its little talons scratching around in the space between my roof and the ceiling.
In case you don't already know, it's a rather diconcerting sound. There's a bird in my house. Right above me.
Now, I'm not scared of birds ala Hitchcock's "The Birds," but I don't like the idea of them living in my house. Mostly because of the scratching sound they make on the ceiling.

Damn it, bird! Only my mice are allowed to make that scritchy scratching sound in my ceilings.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 12:46 PM | Comments (4)

January 19, 2005

Ginger the Bulldog

"God. I think I'm losing my mind. I just missed a meeeting. Do you have that paper done? Oh! I've got it here. -- I am so stressed." That's the way my boss usually talked, but one day he came up to me and said something like, "Brian, I'm going out of town for the weekend. Do you think you could take care of my dog?"
"Sure." Why not?It's not like it'll be hard. I had two dogs, so I knew how to take care of them. Plus I was already taking care of two, three couldn't be much more work, especially considering it possibly meant my boss might relax for a weekend and freak out slightly less in the coming week. "When are you leaving?"
"Friday. I'll be back late Monday afternoon." It was a three day weekend - he's not the type of guy that would miss a chance to tear at the six or seven hairs remaining on his head. Not on a workday.
"Cool. Just bring your dog by my house whenever. Is there anything I should know about it?"
"Not that I can think of." He just bought the dog from another guy at work.
The other guy had to get rid of the purebred English bulldog because his wife ran a restaurant of sorts out of their house. She was Korean and used her exotic cooking skills to cook up carry out for his co workers. Since they lived only a few blocks from the office business at the "Korea House" was pretty good and she wanted to make the house more like real restaurant. The situation was like a(n American) restaurant in a couple ways: menus and no dogs in the kitchen.
Actually, she didn't want the dog in the house at all, ever. So her husband sold the dog to my boss. My boss wanted it because so many people said he looked like a bulldog. I'm not sure why people said that about him. Not every chubby, bald guy with jowls looks like a bulldog.

I took his dog in and the weekend was pretty uneventful. The most exciting thing was when my friend came over and got the dog to chase him around a pole in the yard. It, Ginger, was quite possibly the most clumsy animal ever - even more clumsy than my cat. It chased him around the pole tripping and falling over itself. We were very amused.

On Monday, our day off and the day my boss was to return, we planned to meet up at a fireworks show in a park not far from my house. Since it was only about two or three miles away I decided to walk all three dogs there. It was a nice, sunny summer day. It wasn't too hot, even though the fireworks were for the fourth of July, one of the hotter months of the year. It had actually been a pretty mild summer since I started working for him in mid May.

About halfway to the park his dog, Ginger, stopped. She dug her four paws into the ground and leaned back; the same stance my dogs take when they want me to stop walking so they can go to the bathroom (really they're dogs. They don't use the "bathroom." But you know what I mean). So I stopped and waited. Ginger did nothing for about 20 seconds or so. I gave her leash a tug and we started up again.
We got about 10 yards before I felt her stop again. I looked back at her end of the leash and saw her fall over on her side and take a leak. Man, that is the clumsiest dog ever.
I waited for a bit for her to get up. I noticed she had also taken a dump. God. This is the weirdest dog ever.
"Come on Ginger. Let's go drop you off with your dad." As soon as I said that her tongue flopped out of her mouth. Normally that would be good, but considering she wasn't panting, she was lying on her side with one open eye pressed to the sidewalk and she had just released her bowels I didn't take it as a good sign.
Holy shit. Ginger's dead!
No. She can't be.
I poked her. "Come on Ginger. Don't be dead." If she was dead I wasn't talking her out of it, her head rolled over to the side a little. I grabbed her tongue to see if she was all right. No dog would let you grab its tongue, right? She let me grab her tongue.
Oh no. She's dead. I just killed my bosses dog!
No. Wait. She's just passed out. She got too hot, that's all.
No. Crap. It's only 78 degrees. She's dead.
No. No. She's just passed out. Heat stroke. Doggy heat stroke.
She's not breathing. She's dead.
I'm no vet. How would I know if she's not breathing. Dogs may sneak breathe so they seem dead. I've got to get her to the vet.
Yeah. The vet. Will it be open on the fourth of July?
Try. You've got to try.

I grabbed Ginger, the deceptively heavy dog and started running to the vet. I was closer to the vet than I was to home. Damn. This dog is heavy. She must weigh 80 pounds. I can't carry her all the way there. Not if I plan to make good time, which I have to do because there is no way Ginger is dead.
then I noticed a house across the street. It belonged to someone from work. Someone I had seen around, but never talked to. I can't go over there, I don't even know her name.
But I've got a dead dog in your arms.
Yeah, I've got a dead dog in my arms.
Wait. No. A passed out dog. She'll drive me to the vet.
What am I going to do with my dogs? Asking someone to pack you and three dogs, one of them dead passed out, into their car might be a little much.
I've got to try.

I went up to the door and rang the doorbell. One of her kids came to the door, pulled back the curtain and peered through the window. The kid was just tall enough to look Ginger straight in the eyes. The kids screamed and jumped back. I waited a couple more minutes. No one came to the door again, so I rang a second time. There was a bit of commotion before the mother, the woman from work, opened the door.
"What the --?"
"My bosses dog. I think she's dying. I need to get to the vet. Could you please give me a ride?"
"It looks like the dog's dead."
"I hope not. I just started working here and --"
"Yeah. I know. I've seen you around."
"Could you please give me a ride to the vet?"
"I guess. If you really need to."
"I don't want her to die."
"I think she's already dead. Look how her head is hanging down and her tongue is hanging out --"
"We've got to give it a try. Please?"
"Ok. What about these dogs?"
"I don't know. Could I leave them here?"
"Sure. I'll have my kids watch them. They love dogs."
"Oh. Sorry about scaring your son like that."
"Yeah. He said he thought someone was pranking us with a dog ringing the bell."

We found a shower curtain and lay it down int he back seat then put Ginger's soiled body atop it and drove to the vet. Luckily the vet was in doing some paperwork on his day off. He wasn't going to respond to the knock at the door, but the floating dog head at the door trick wooed him.

"I just took my bosses dog for a walk and it fell over. I think it's sick."
"Sorry, but she looks dead to me."
"Can you check? Please?"
He pulled out a stethoscope pressed it to Ginger's chest for a second or two before announcing, "Yep. She's dead."
"Dead? There's nothing we can do?" I know dead is dead, but for some reason I asked. I expected a "no" answer, but he mistook my question for childish hope he would pull some Jesus maneuver and raise Ginger from the dead. And he didn't want to let me down. He took out a little doggy oxygen mask and placed it over Ginger's non-existent muzzle. He pumped her chest. He listened with the stethoscope as I and the woman, whose name I never got, I had dragged into the tragedy watched on.
I realized he was doing it all for my benefit. There was no hope over Ginger akwardly chasing anyone around the yard again. I said, "She doesn't seem to be responding."
"Nope, she isn't." he said as he put away all the equipment. "You said you're not the owner?"
"No. My boss is."
"Well, we'll have to ask him what to do with her."
"He's out of town right now. He'll be back later today."
"Well, I'll put her in the freezer until he lets me know what to do with her."
"I'll have him call you as soon as possible."

I went home and called up my boss. "Hey. I came home early. Where were you? I stopped by your house to pick Ginger up but you weren't there."
"I was probably walking over to meet you at the park. But listen, there's something I have to tell you about Ginger. --"

These are the things I think about on my way to work.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 01:14 PM | Comments (0)

January 18, 2005

Krakow

"Bitte, einz zu Krakow."
"Excuse me?"
"I'd like a ticket to Krakow please?"
"Ok. Very well. First class or coach?" It never fails to amaze me; people all over the world speaking English better than me. I try their language and they shake their heads, "I know English. Just speak English."

The first leg of the trip was a short train ride from Frankfurt to Hannover. I found my assigned seat, smack between the only two obese men in all of Germany. I took a different seat knowing full well that I was playing fast and loose with my life. Germans lose organization and there I was with my American informality taking the wrong seat simply because my was covered with rolls of fat. I could almost see my being in the wrong seat enraging some uber-organized German so much he'd attmept to strangle me.
Luckily no one ever came to claim the seat. I got off scott-free with my disrespect for their organization.

I finally arrived in Krakow about 18 hours later, at about 11am.
As soon as I got off the train I was attacked by people trying to rent me rooms. Damn! I'd looked up Krakow on the old interweb and read that it was a pretty nice city. It had a castle and some medieval stuff. A dragon? I think I had heard they had a dragon too (Which, as it turns out, sits right near the castle). But I hadn't looked up anything else. What kind of moron are you, Brian? I didn't have a hotel, a motel, a hostel. Nothing. Not even a prospect. I decided to listen to the people pitch their rooms.
"Great room. Fine room in the city center, only 900 Zlotsky." (Or whatever Polish money is called. Whatever the proper name, I call it zlotsky.)
"No, I'm looking for something cheaper." Moron! How much is a Zlotsky worth? What's the exchange rate? You should have checked this out. 900? That seems like a lot. No matter the exchange rate. 900 is a lot. I bet it's a lot.
"What? Cheaper? There is nothing cheaper. Not in the city center."
Nothing cheaper? I bet he's just saying that. He looks pretty insulted though. Maybe 900 zlotsky isn't all that much. He went over to talk to an older woman. They returned together.
"Here. She has a cheaper room."
The short old woman wrote "500 Z" on a piece of paper and held it out for me to read. Sweet! I just cut the price in half. Whatever a Zlotsky is worth I know I'm getting a better deal now. I took the woman's offer. She said soemthing like, "walk to car." Then she motioned to my bag. She wanted to carry it. She's like 60 something and wants to carry my bag. I turned down her offer.
She gave me a strange look and stopped walking. She pointed at my bag. Is she insisting on carrying my bag? She is. I handed her my bag. She fell over to the side a bit, then hobbled over to her car.
When we got back to her house she showed me around. I was staying in her spare room. Her room was across the hall. I think she had a husband and grandchildren. At least that's what I gathered when she showed me her bathroom. There were toothbrushes and dirty clothes scattered around. And soap. Good. I forgot to bring soap and there's enough that no one will notice if I use some.
When she finished showing me around I took a shower. I hadn't taken one in a couple days because of the traveling and with all that soap I just had to take one. I moved the swim suit out of the way and took a shower. When I was done I headed into the city. I exchanged some money and found out my room only cost about $14. I also bought another train ticket for Budapest the next night. That left me about 36 hours in Krakow. Ok, on to the city.
I was hungry. Too bad she didn't have a sandwich sitting around. I looked for someplace with an English menu. I found a place that looked like a bar. It looked like a bar until I got just too far to turn back without embarassment. I had walked into the Polish version of Hooter. Rooster. Damn. I should have known. Now I'm like the creepy American sex tourist. One beer and I'm gone. But the beer was cheap, and I was hungry. One plate of pasta and two beers and then I was gone.

I walked around the city until I was overcome by jetlag and cold, until I ran out of sunlight and had nothing left to see. Then I headed back to the old lady's house. To my room. I planned on going out later - finding a bar or a club and checking out the sure-to-be-happenign Krahowian scene - but I fell asleep.

In the morning I packed up all my stuff and left the room. I talked to the old lady and she agreed to let me keep my bag in her house, but I couldn't stay there without paying. No problem. I'll just bum around the city. It's 6am. I'll hit a cafe and get some coffee first off. I'll figure out what to do from there.
I walked around the city for about 45 minutes without seeing anything that looked open. What time to things open here? I saw a cafe and looked at the sign. Damn. They don't open until 7am. Oh. That's only 15 minutes. Ok. I'll look around for soemthing open now, but if nothing is open I'll come back here.
I walked around the corner and found what looked to be a cafe, and just in time. It was on early November morning and I was getting cold. Through the window I saw the place had a shelf all the way around its perimeter and several people inside drinking. I went in.
Just inside the door was a carry out liquor store, but through a door I saw the area I had seen from the window. I walked in to a room with about 10 other people. They sat on benches or stood at the shelf drinking. Their morning drinks.
I went up to the employee tucked behind a small counter topped with about 5 beer taps. "I'll take an espresso." She laughed along with her friend.
"No coffee. Just beer."
I looked over at the people around the outside of the room. Each had a beer. They were drinking beer at 7am. Are they drinking before work? Who would drink this early? I ordered a beer.

The spent the rest of my day looking at the sights in between stops at bars and cafes to use the bathroom justifying my visits with alternating purchases of beer and coffee. During the course of the day I became both dehydrated and extremely drunk.

Toward the end of the day as I walked by a grocery store two kids a little younger than I was approached me saying soemthign in Polish. I got the impression they were begging. I tried to use the "I only speak English" excuse, but then they said, "Sir, maybe you could go in the store and get us some water or juice. Please?" Holy shit. They're begging for water?

Sure. I'll be right back. I came out with both juice and water for them. Oh, and some beer, too. I needed someone else to drink with.
They were punk rocker, squatters, unemployed. We sat and drank until --"Oh, shit. My train is leaving in fifteen minutes. How do I get to the train station from here? Shit! My bag is at the old lady's house."

I made it to the train just before it pulled away. Then I passed out.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 06:05 PM | Comments (1)

Phone

I seem to have misplaced my phone yesterday.

If you see it could you please make sure I get it back when you are done with all your calls to your friends in Myanmar.

Thank you.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 11:36 AM | Comments (1)

Manual Labor

This weekend I did a lot of screwing. With a girl.

Seriously. Screwing. With screws and a screw driver.

I love how manual labor can be used to make sexual innuendos. Screwing. Pounding.
Plumbing is good too. If you're not inserting the male into the female you're doing it wrong.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 11:28 AM | Comments (2)

January 14, 2005

Dan's Exploits

We have this internet policy at work. I'm a little rough on the details, but I know one of the things you're not supposed to do it look at porno. Porno and anything anti-semitic. I think Francophobic is ok, after all people keep look at billoreilly.com like it's their god given right, but like I said, I'm a little rough on the details.
I do know that supervisors are held responsible for their subordinates' indiscretions. But I don't know how any supervisor would stop one of their employees. Walk around to see what they're looking at? Any employee with sense looks around for their boss before they begin to enjoy their internet porn at work.

One day I was walking through the office and one of my employees was looking at some porno. "What are you looking at?"
"Oh. Hey, Boss. My friend just sent me this email. It's pretty good."
"I see it." I figured telling him that I saw the porno on his screen would be enough. He'd realize the boss saw it and save it for home.
"Isn't she hot?"
"Yeah, she's pretty hot." See, Dan? I saw it. I noticed what it is. Put it away.
"That's a man."
"No way!"
"Yep."
"There's no way that's a man."
"Yep. They're all men." It was a slide show with nearly 2 dozen photos of "women" topless or in two piece bikinis. "They're all Thai men."
"But. But, the breasts."
"Hormones. But aside from that a lot of the men there look just like women."
"Not that much like women. Those have got to be women."
"No, they're men. Here I'll send it to you."

That incident must have established some sort of rapport between us because from that day on Dan started talking to me about his sexual adventures across Asia. "I went to this bar in the Phillipines. It was the first I had ever been there and I went with a friend of mine. We sat at the bar and he ordered the special. So I did too. They gave us each a couple beers, but it shocked the hell out of me when someone started openeing my fly. A girl opened this window under the bar opened my fly through it. I didn't see anything so it really shocked me. Plus I didn't know why. I thought it was just a five dollar beer."
"That's nice Dan. Did you get those budget figures from the finance office?"
"No, not yet."

"Did I ever tell you about my friends that were in the Army? The ones who went on a sex tour of Thailand?"
"Dan, this sounds like you."
He laughed like it was actually him, or something he could see himself doing at the very least. "No, I didn't go with them this time."
"I don't know, you tell me a lot of stories."
"Well, three of my friends went down to Thailand for a week on what they called a 'sex tour.' Did I tell you that?"

It went something like this. Three friends of Dan's took leave from the Army and flew to Thailand. There the intended to change their dollars for sex, but first they needed a hotel room. So the three guys went down to a hotel and got three seperate rooms -- they couldn't share a room because of the impending sexual marathon with thailands sex workers. They stored their stuff in their rooms and planned to meet up in the lobby for a night on the town.
By the time the second guy made it to the lobby the first was already engaged in conversation with a hooker. The other two thought something about the hotel lobby solicitation was a bit disconcerting -- maybe they liked their whores a little less aggressive, you know the timid type -- so they tried to get the first guy to forget about the girl and go out with them. But he wasn't hearing any of it, 'Hold on, guys, I'll be right back down.'
'Fine. We'll be in the bar.' So the groupd split up. The two went to the bar, the other guy took the girl upstairs to get a jump start on his tour.
Upstairs the girl began to earn her money by going down on him. 'Ok, I want to have sex with you now.'
'There is something I have to tell you first.'
'I've got a rubber.' Still, she didn't seem to want to move.
'I want to fuck you now.'
She said, 'I have to tell you something.' Then went back to business.
He grabbed for her skirt. She fought him off, ' I have to tell you something.'
I don't care what you have to tell me. He reached under her skirt. -- He reached under her skirt and grabbed her penis.
He jumped back in shock. She jumped back and screamed. 'I tried to tell you.'
'Get the fuck away from me you faggot.'
'It's no problem, you can have sex with my ass.'
'Get the fuck away!'
She/He came toward the client, 'It's no problem.' the client punched her/him in the face and threw him out the door. He waited, looking out the peephole, until it ran away. Then he went down to the bar to his friends.
He told his friends all about what had happened while drinking a beer. Before he finished the beer the prositute came back with a couple police officers. 'That's him. That's him.' is what she/he probably said in Thai because the police confronted the man.
'You need to pay the lady.'
'That's no lady. That's a man.'
'You need to pay him.'
'I'm not paying him.'
'He performed oral sex for you like you asked.'
'He's a dude. I didn't ask for that.'
'You owe him for oral sex.'
'I'm not paying. That's a dude. He lied to me.'
'How could you not know that was a man? He didn't lie.'
'I'm not paying.'
'You owe him for his work.'
'But I didn't even come.'
'He says, only because you kicked him out.'
'I kicked him out because he' a man.'
'Man or not, you pay him or you go to jail.'
'I'd rather go to jail. There's no way I'm going to pay a man to give me head.'

The friends stepped in. 'Dude. Do you know how bad this will look back at work? What are we going to tell the commander? You can't make it back to work because you're in jail in Thailand for not paying a prostitute? A male prostitute?'
'Well, I ain't paying. That's all there is.'
The friends ended up paying the guy in the skirt in order to keep their friend out of jail.

"Weird."
"I know. Can you imagine?"
"I don't imagine you've finished the form for the new copier, have you?"
"Damn. Forgot about that. Did I ever tell you about the time we all photocopied our..."

Posted by calculatoronfire at 12:21 PM | Comments (2)

January 12, 2005

Pizza

Last night I helped Emma move some stuff into her new apartment. "You said you have another desk upstairs. How big is it?"
"Not very."
"Like how not very? I need to know so I know which one to put in the truck first."

I went upstairs to see how big it was. It turned out to be pretty small and just light enough for me to carry by myself. You could also say it was too big and heavy for me to fit through the hall and down the stairs by myself without slamming it into walls repeatedly. I guess it depends on how much you like the wall going down the stairway of her old apartment.

When I walked into the apartment it was pretty much in chaos. Things were in total dissarray, strewn all about the living room. Mostly as a result of two of the three people moving out. But the missing missing couch cushions -- those were gone because the guy not moving, a grown man, was washing them pissed on them in his sleep again the night before. I giggled and pointed at their absence.
"I know. I know. He's so disgusting. Why do you think I'm moving?"

We moved some desks, computers, a filing cabinet, the non urine-stained part of a papasan chair and headed out to the new apartment. When we got to the new place to unload Charles in Charge showed up. I gave him a couple heavy things and by the time he moved that stuff inside the job was done. I went upstairs and took a seat on the sofa courtesy of Carl and Liz before heading into Rachel's room to get her to explain the acquisition of her bedroom set.
It looked to me to have a sort of a 1976 meets Dynasty theme. White faux wood with bluish-grey grain and gold handles. "How old is this stuff?"
"It's pretty old, my mom bought it when I graduated from high school."
"That's not old."
"Yes, it is."
"That's like four - five years ago. I thought this stuff was from the late 70s."

Charles in Charge had made some noise earlier about getting some pizza or something. "Dominos has that 3 for $15 special. We could do that."
"Cool. Whatever."
"Alright then. What do you guys want?" Between Daniel, Emma, Rachel and I we came up with green peppers or something. We're sort of casual about pizza. "Anything else? Come on." Charles in Charge is very serious about his pizza.

He left the room and came back a few minutes later. He set his phone down on the 70s dynasty chest and asked, "What's the address here?"
"6245 B."
"6245 B. Got it. -- These fucking people. I can't understand a word they're saying. They're God damn idiots. This place fucking sucks. I don't know why they're hiring fucking retards." He picked up his phone, turned around and stepped out the door. "Sir..."

After that he found they wouldn't deliver his pizza. So he tried somplace else. I walked into the room at the tail end of the conversation, just as Charles in Charge exploded. "I just moved here.
"What do you mean you won't deliver a pizza if I haven't gotten one delivered here before. I said I just moved here.
"Fuck you! I hope you don't have [some phone company]. Cuz I work for them, and you fucking pissed me off. I'm going to cut your fucking service."

Charles in Charge is very serious about his pizza.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 11:55 AM | Comments (6)

January 11, 2005

My Cheap Clothes

After a break for the holidays tutoring started up again last night. During the day the tutoring coordinator called up the tutors to remind us all to start showing up again. My phone doesn't get reception in the building where I work so I didn't get the call, but she left a message.
It turns out there is one part of the building where I do get reception. The bathroom. I just stepped up the urinal and ... BUZZ. BUZZ. It surprised me, to say the least.

So I showed up at the family center only to find the girl whom I was to tutor wouldn't be coming in. Instead I got to tutor the girl that likes to critique my clothes.
"Eww. Green pants? Why you wearing green pants, boy? No one wears green pants. Around here you gotta wear jeans or khakis."
That was the first day I showed up to tutor. I have to say, however, that I did get "props" for my sweater.

Last night when she came in Greasy Hair Girl, or whatever her name is, said, "Eww. Checkers? You got to be kidding me."
"I call it plaid."
She grabbed my pants. "Eww. What are these made of?"
"Polyester."
"They definitely don't sell those at Wal Mart."
"No. I don't imagine they do."
"Well, you got to get yourself down to Wal Mart or something to get some new clothes. Where did you get them pants? The thrift store?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"No you didn't. You bought them pants at the thrift store? -- Hey y'all, he shops at the thrift store."
"Yep. It's cheap. I got these for $1.50."
"I don't wear nothing that cheap. My clothes gots to be at least 18, 19 dollars at Wal Mart. Nineteen ninety nine for a pair of pants. Not no dollar fifty."

I'm not sure when shopping at Wal Mart became resoundingly cooler than shopping at a thrift store.
Shows what I know never shopping there.
Maybe the prison laborers in China are putting out highly stylish clothes this season. Highly stylish, and of course cheap - you can't really beat Chinese prison wages, can you?
I mean, prisons in this country don't even pay a very high wage.
A couple months back a letter from the Maryland Women's Penitentiary landed on my stoop. It was from "Mom" addressed to no one in particular, but my address was clearly written in it. I read it and found "Mom" had one of the highest paying jobs in the joint making $1.10 a day, and though there was an expected pay change in the works her projected pay was to be only $2.85 a day.
If you think about it, that's not a lot. She had been in the slammer long enough to more than double her weight (she ballooned from a crack whorish 105 a more comfortable 215) she hadn't yet been able to save enough to buy herself a radio.
See if "Mom" will be shopping for those fancy, expensive clothes at Wal Mart any time soon.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 01:47 PM | Comments (2)

January 10, 2005

A Good Day for Accidents

As I left work on Friday I noticed it was foggy. I got in my car and told myself, "Be on guard." In this area fog, and every other weather condition besides partly cloudy, means its a great day for accidents. But since I left early the traffic was fairly light. I was only a few miles from home when I saw my first accident. This time, unlike usual, I saw the accident happen.
Normally I'll drive by a single car with a smashed front end sitting on the side of the road or minivan lying on its roof at the end of an on-ramp. Sometimes I see two or more cars pulled to the side, sometimes the fresher accidents still block the roadway, but they don't perplex me quite as much. Two cars or more: one car hit another one. One car: was someone trying to collect insurance money?
This past Friday, however, I saw the accident happen. I knew the sequence of events.

I looked over just as a semi, having changed lanes, collided with a van.
Somehow the front bumper of the van and the back step of the semi - the one kids step up on so they can get onto the truck to write "Wash Me" on the back door - caught each other and the semi began dragging the van down the highway. The back wheels of the van swerved back and forth across the lane; somewhat like an animal moving its tail. It was less eratic than a dog's tail wagging, but more erratic than a fish doing whatever it does with its tail.
It looked to me that the driver of the van stepped on the brakes, because smoke came out from the back wheels - the ones that touched the ground. The front right tire, the one on the side conjoined to the semi trailer, at least, failed to meet the road. I was close enough to see that clearly.
Then with a wild wag, like a my dogs do when they see food (or cat poo), the semi threw the van to the side of the road. It tossed the van into the guard rail like I do with my banana peels (and sometimes apple cores. But never litter, only organic matter) - I'm done with you! - and I continue driving.
The semi's not stopping. I wonder if he even knows he hit that van. Maybe he does but doesn't want to hear it from his boss. I bet truckers really get an earful when they hit someone. "We sent you to A-1 Best Driving School, didn't you learn anything?" Bosses always like to yell. -- Oh. There. He's stopping.

Then I thought about it. So many people had seen the accident, someone could finger the semi. If he drove off he'd get in worse trouble. They must teach them to stop at truck driver school.

I've been in a couple car accidents myself. One in particular stands out right now. It wasn't a very serious one. My mom crashed into a car in a parking lot. A parked car.
She stopped in a gas station - one of those big ones in the middle of nowhere. The kind with a western gear store attached so it demands a huge gravel parking lot. Backing out of her spot in the front row cars parked along the side of the building she didn't see a second row of cars. I didn't see one from the back seat either, but I wasn't looking.
There wasn't really a second row of cars anyway, just a single car parked in the middle of the gravel lot. It was parked just right. So my mom could back up and hit it totally perpendicularly. Her bumper able to press its entire being across both doors of the sedan.
"Oh my God!" My mom's standard answer to any event. "What was that?"
"You just hit a car."
"Oh my God! I didn't see it."
"Well it's there."
"I hope no one is hurt." she went out to check.
There was no on in the car. No one in the parking lot. Anywhere.
She went into the gas station/western gear store and looked for the car's owner. About ten minutes later she walked back to the car, distraught. "There was no one in the store. I went through every aisle."
"Did you ask the cashier if it was their car?"
"No. Good idea. I'll check." She went back into the store and came out about five minutes later. "I had the cashier announce it over the intercom and no one answered."
"Well then, let's go."
"I can't just leave."
"Sure you can. The car doesn't belong to anyone."

I almost had her convinced she could flee the scene when a woman walked out of the store. My mom saw her and jumped out of the car. "Is that your car?" sha asked pointing toward the sedan she had hit some 20 minutes prior.
"Yeah."
"I'm sorry. I backed into it."
"Where?" the woman asked.
"Right here." My mom pointed to the point of impact, a huge dent across most of the side of the car. It was pretty bad. It looked like both passenger side doors no longer opened.
"Where?"
"This dent here." Wasn't it obvious? Hello. The big dent across the side of your car?
"Oh, no. It was like that already."

My mom got back into the car and we drove off puzzled. "You crashed into that car that hard and it didn't do anything?"
"What are the odds I'd hit a car in the exact spot someone else did already? You know you that means you don't have to tell dad about this."

Posted by calculatoronfire at 01:00 PM | Comments (4)

January 07, 2005

A First Date

I used to work at a gas station, but not just any gas station, a gas station man's gas station. It was owned by a former truck driver. It was his idea of a gas station. The one he was looking forward to stopping at during all those years on the road.
He insisted we all wear uniforms. He ensured we never ran out of Sioux City Cream Soda or ephedrine. He demanded we brew fresh coffee if anyone ever questioned its freshness. He said customers were encouraged to hang out inside the building. That's how one of the former employees got in trouble.

One day when things were sort of slow the woman that worked the cash register asked me to watch it for a second while she emptied her colostomy bag. When she came back I asked her why "that guy that always smokes Pall Malls" hangs around so much. She said he worked at the gas station for a long time but was fired. He wanted his job back so kept showing up for his shift, it must have become a habit.
"Do you know why he got fired?"
She explained about the address system - how the pumps needed to be authorized at night and the cashier told people they were autorized by using it. He was inside talking to a friend one day when a hot girl came to fill up. He remarked about her "tits," "ass" and other stuff, but he must have been leaning on the mic button when he did it, so it broadcast to the entire gas station inside and out. Apparently she went berserk and when Fred, the owner, arrived she told him. Fred fired him on the spot to shut the girl up.

I went back to the deli to make more subs. I was the deli man every Tuesday and Thursday Sundays. That meant that I made subs and salads, broasted chicken and plunged the men's room toilet when it overflowed at least once every shift.
The deli was right inside the door, so that when customers walked in they saw my smiling face (occassionally blemished from the hot chicken broasting grease splashing up and burning me). Normally these customers only came inside for two reasons. One, to pay. Two, to find the bathroom. (Although there were also occassional male exhibitionists. As a result I unfortunately have the image an overweight man in nothing but grey sweat shorts walking in showing off his expansive beer belly and back hair burned into one of those easy-recall areas of my brain.) My favorite bathroom seaker was an old man that didn't speak English. He came directly up to me and said, "Blar blah garblah."
"What?"
"Blar blah garblah."
"Sorry, I don't understand."
It would have been safe to have assumed he was asking where he could find the constantly overflowing toilet but I figured there was always a chance someone would come in just for my delicious broasted chicken. It became clear to me that he wasn't asking for chicken, or even a sub when I saw him gesture toward his crotch.
He made the OK sign wit